


Forté

by blinding



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, I never know how to rate these, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blinding/pseuds/blinding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Loki's favorite thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forté

**Author's Note:**

> Had a partitally written draft of this for ages. Finally decided to finish it up, though it is not polished nor beta'd. Written for a [prompt](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/11219.html?thread=24593619#t24593619) on the kinkmeme.

_Silvertongue._ The Lady Sif may know best of all just how skilled Loki truly is with his mouth, yet she prefers to keep the truth a secret. This, Loki has no qualms with, for he too prefers to keep her to himself. _Silvertongue_. The name has always been fitting, although few know how (in)appropriately the title applies. It is his favorite thing, using his tongue against others. _One_ other in particular.

 

It steals his breath away to see her stretched naked before him, dark hair fanning above her, sunk into the softness of his bed. Caressing her warm skin with a reverence that is nearly sacred, seeing her open before him, vulnerable and trusting, he knows how to use his aptly named tongue to give her paramount bliss. He is fond of teasing her, bringing her to the edge only to drag her back, again and again until she can take it no more. Her legs wrapped so tightly around his head he cannot hear a thing, she will hold him to her until she gets what she needs.

 

It makes him ache to bend her over his grand desk, spread her legs and crouch upon the floor. The way she moans as he presses his tongue deeply inside of her, his hands gliding along the sensitive skin of her rear and back, makes him dizzy. He likes how she thrashes, sending his books and quills spilling to the floor, making a mess of his room as he makes a mess of her mind.

 

It thrills him when she fights, when the heat and aggression from the training ring follows them into the bedroom. She’ll battle against him, biting at his lips and clawing at his hair until he can wrestle her to the bed, to the floor, to the dirt. He loves it when she deflects his usual advances, lashing out against his touch and daring him to try harder until he literally tears the clothes from her body. She’ll hold her legs closed, making him defy her strength with forceful hands driven with primal need until he can bury his face into her heat. And still, she will fight, challenging him, trying to break his concentration by pushing his head away and digging her feet into his sides, needling him, goading him. Until it is too much and he snaps, snarling and angry, wrapping his arms and hands with a bruising force around her thighs, holding her captive to his punishing mouth. Until she finally comes, screaming and thrashing and pulling his hair so hard he sees stars.  Until he finally wins.

 

He likes to revel in it, slow and lazy. He can dedicate long hours to the touch and taste of her skin, sliding his hands and lips along her long form until she is supple under him, hair unbound and limbs loose. He likes to lay her down in some secluded field, spread out on a blanket in the afternoon sun, the warmth on his back. Dream-like, he’ll worship her body until her eyes are lidded in relaxed pleasure. Slow and soft, he’ll drag his tongue and lips against her in unhurried exploration, savoring her flavor, her scent, her quiet sounds. Until his jaw aches in the most delicious way. It makes his heart pound to see the soft smile on her face when her bliss washes over her like a sigh, a gentle wave and her eyes flutter closed.

 

He enjoys seeing how quickly he can make her come. To push her up against a shadowed pillar, just outside of the reach of the torchlight at some feast or festival, rucking her skirts up and pulling her hands down to the curved metal of his horned helmet before pressing his face against her. He finds it intoxicating to listen to her suppress her gasps and moans, to feel her tug him closer with urgent hands, anxious and frenzied. Sliding long fingers into her, he’ll rub against her in a way that is sure to undo her with great speed, the thrill of the risk and the sureness of his mouth pushing her to climax. He cannot help the vain satisfaction, to look up at her with a glistening face and a smug smile.

 

Some days the thought of tasting her consumes him, driving him to distraction. Despite being a master of self-control, he cannot deny his craving forever and sooner or later his attempts at concentration become futile.  His anguish will grow until he _must_ find her, begging her to let him touch her, whimpering his need against her when she allows him to spread her open.

 

He loves it when she is the aggressor, seeking him out and taking what she wants. To know that he has marked her, that she desires him and his mouth and no other, arouses him to unfathomable levels. Gladly, he will let her push him to the floor, make him kneel before her with a leg hooked over his shoulder to balance, push him onto his back and straddle his head.  She’ll ride his mouth, grinding and rocking against his face with her hands pushed into his hair, unashamedly gasping and moaning as she takes her pleasure. It lights his blood aflame to see her a slave to her lust, to be used as her tool.

 

No matter where or when or how, it is his favorite thing, to be selfishly selfless. He wants to give her exquisite pleasure, to be the sole cause of her screaming bliss. He wants to ruin her so that no other will ever do, so she finds all others so severely lacking she will think only of him.

He is captivated by the duality of the act, the total submission to another and yet to be completely in power over their pleasure. He loves that the most fearsome woman in all the Realms allows him to kneel at her alter, to worship and surrender before her. Yet the fierce warrior turns supple at his hand.

He yearns for the feel of her, the weight of her legs on his shoulders, the smooth skin of her thighs, the warm silk of her lips. He covets the sounds he draws from her, sighs and gasps and moans and screams. He hungers for her taste, her scent, always desiring to drink deeply from her.

Nothing is more arousing to him than how wet she is because of him, _for_ him.

 

Sometimes, he will slide a hand underneath himself, stroking to the rhythm of his tongue, to the beat of her gasps. Other times he’ll let her touch him after she’s come, needing only the sight of her flushed, satisfied face and a few quick jerks of her wrist to get him off. Sometimes he likes to deny himself a warm touch, bucking into the air to feel the friction of his pants, or thrusting down against the mattress. His very favorite is when he doesn’t have to touch himself at all, when Sif’s hands in his hair, her taste on his tongue, and his name on her lips are enough to send him into all consuming pleasure.

 _Silvertongue_. It is his favorite thing in the world.


End file.
